


A Barnes Family Christmas

by hailrogrs (heron_holmes77)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Christmas AU, M/M, Marvel - Freeform, Secret Santa, Stucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:29:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2834849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heron_holmes77/pseuds/hailrogrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'They both knew what the other was thinking and James almost seemed to nod his head at a silent request before he turned back to his present; they wouldn't mention this to anyone nor would it be spoken about again between them. It would be one of those things they would think about and smile about, look at each other and blush about, but that was all. And Bucky was fine with that.'</p>
<p>A little fic about Steve and Bucky at Christmas. Lots of present-giving and Bucky silently gushing over Steve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Barnes Family Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially a Secret Santa gift to the tumblr user, santabuck~  
> Apologies for any inaccuracies and typos and whatnot.  
> But I hope you like it!

Christmas was a tense time of year every year. For Bucky, at least. The Brooklyn winter weather was harsh, and on Steve it was harsher still and Bucky was hyperaware of such a fact. He and Steve would spend hours wandering around the stores of Brooklyn - or even going so far as to get Bucky's mother to drive them into the throws of New York city itself - in order to buy gifts for friends and family members. It'd often be like a family outing; the entirety of Bucky's family - parents and siblings and all - would head out to shop and ogle at gifts and store windows.

Despite how Steve was essentially an orphan, the little guy still loved to splash what little money he had on Bucky and his family much to the delight of James' younger siblings. Bucky was less accepting of the fact and would rebuke the concept every time it was brought up. Not that his incessant and constant protests could change the guy's mind. "You all do so much for me," he'd say, "I gotta return the favour somehow, Buck."   
"You don't need to return the favour, Steve," Bucky would answer with exasperation, rolling his eyes, "there's no favour to repay. You're family. And you look out for family. It's just something you do." But Steve was as stubborn as they came. It was both his greatest and worst quality. No amount of sweet talk could ever sway him.

Wrapped up in several of his jumpers and two of Bucky's jackets and one of Bucky's father's scarves, they'd venture out into what was, for the average, healthy man, light winter weather with a beautiful dusting of snow to whiten the ground. For Steve, with his skinny frame, asthma and weak immune system, he may as well have been striding through a blizzard on some mountain top somewhere exotic. He'd be constantly attacked with shivers and sudden bouts of coughing from the chill in the air, teeth chattering noisily whenever the wind picked up a little. Bucky's mother would cluck about him like a mother hen the moment he and Bucky returned to the Barnes' abode with bags in hand. "You'll catch your death one day, Steven Rogers," she'd scold as she shoved a steaming cup of the best coffee they had into his hands and flung a blanket over his shoulders.

James would often sling an arm around the guy's shoulders as they traversed Brooklyn and the streets of the city to warm him up. The action was so automatic, so instinctive that he never spared a thought for how it might look to onlookers. And his own family.

Much to what would have been his relief, none of them spoke a word about how gentle James was in his actions towards Steve; how he would often subconsciously walk shoulder to shoulder with the man, telling himself it was purely because he didn't want him to get too cold; how he would fluster like a first-time mother every time Steve caught some sort of ailment and would constantly be checking up on the guy every chance he got; how he'd always be the first to dive into one of the blond's fights regardless of the size of the opponent. "Steve'll get himself killed one day," he would always mutter after he'd come back from spending the entire day at Steve's pokey apartment, nursing the guy's wounds most likely, "someone's gotta look out for the punk. And I'll be damned if it isn't me."

It was a silent, unspoken agreement amongst James' family - even his younger siblings - that such things were never mentioned aloud. The repercussions of speculation from nosy pedestrians was bad enough without his family adding fuel to the flame.

Preparations for Christmas had been a little less chipper that year, what with the war and rationing and the like, and so their gift-buying escapades had been a little less adventurous. Much to Bucky's relief; Steve had managed to go almost all of winter without coming down with a serious illness thanks to the minimal amount of time they'd spent shopping around and James was desperate for it to continue.

Steve had stayed over at Bucky's house as was per the norm when it came to Christmas - or any holiday, really, after both the man's parent's had passed away - and they had stayed up until the early hours in Bucky's living room discussing the state of the war. Steve had stayed relatively - and surprisingly - silent on the matter up to a point; As kind as the guy was, Steve couldn't suppress his opinions for long. Steve took up residence of the couch whereas Bucky laid on the floor beneath him.

"We're going to win," Bucky had said with a smile on his face, arms folded behind his head, "we're going to win and those Germans won't know what hit 'em."  
"Are you going to enlist?" Steve had asked, silencing James for a moment as he let his smile soften before he looked up at the blond whom was nestled amongst his nest of duvets and knitted, worn blankets.  
"I think the question is more; are _you_ going to enlist?" Bucky's eyebrow had raised accusingly. The underlying worry of his words had been obvious and the blond ruffled; he hated being mollycoddled in any shape or form.  
"So what if I am? Men are laying down their lives out there," he'd countered, "I at least need to give it a shot."  
Bucky's lips thinned into a line and he tried a different tactic. "Who's to say the war won't end soon? Maybe it'd be safer if you- if we stayed here? Waited it out for a while? Found some other means to help?"  
Steve had easily heard Buck's slip-up but decided not to comment on it. He had twisted onto his side, propping himself up on a bony elbow. His night clothes - hand-me-down's of Bucky's - were too broad and large for him, swamping his tiny frame. He had looked so fragile and small to Bucky, but the saying of looks being deceiving suited no man better than Steve Rogers.   
"Wait around, picking up scrap metal? Sit back as more men die and more wives are widowed? Watch as others do what we ought to be doing too?"  
"Stevie," Buck had cut in carefully, having shifted so that he too was propped up on his elbow and able to see the other man better. The righteous light in the blond's blue eyes never failed to awe-inspire him and James loved nothing more than to listen to the guy's empowering speeches at two in the morning but, at that moment..."Let's not talk about this now, alright? It's late. And it's Christmas. This talk and the war can wait for a day." He'd smiled his most peaceful, cease-fire smile and sighed silently when Steve ceded, nodding his head and smiling back, before he'd lowered himself onto his back. It had seemed as though a mere moment had ticked by before the little guy had been out for the count, leaving Bucky there to smile himself to sleep.

When morning had rolled around, Bucky's younger siblings had roused the two men from their sleep at some ungodly hour after having dragged Bucky's parents from their room also. As the family assembled themselves around their neat piles of presents, James took up his usual position alongside Steve, a woollen blanket draped over them both with their shoulders touching - 'to combat the cold', Bucky would always say and Steve never argued - whilst James' siblings and parents opened their own gifts.

Steve and Bucky always opened theirs in private. It was simply a ... _thing_ of theirs. They never had conjured up a reason as to why they preferred privacy when it came to the two of them receiving and opening gifts from one another; Bucky swore they had done such a thing for as long as he could remember and there had never been any reason to drop the habit. And so, when Bucky's siblings had cleared away their presents - ranging from books to dolls to second-hand train sets - and their parents had stepped out to 'pick up a few things' and 'take the children to the park', the two were given time to be left to their own devices.

"So what goodies has Mr Rogers conjured up this year?" Bucky asked as he stretched his arms above his head before leaning to one side in a show of nonchalance, observing Steve as he toyed with the fraying plaid blanket.

It wasn't widely known how much of an artist the guy beside the brunet was but, man, could those hands work wonders. Steve had crafted and drawn and painted Bucky some incredible things since they had met as children. Whereas he always brought James' family a variety of gifts, he would always hand craft something for his best friend regardless of his health. He always spoke of it being more personal. "You give a little piece of yourself in everything you create," he'd say, "and there's no one I'd rather give pieces of myself to than to you, Buck." He'd blush like an idiot as he said it, eyes downcast, and James would clap the guy on the shoulder and jest to ease the awkwardness, all the while his heart would be swelling in his chest.

A stubborn look appeared on Steve's face all of a sudden, a smile following in quick succession as he shook his head. "Oh, no, Bucky, it's you first this year," he countered, "I was first last year; it's your turn to take the lead."  
Sighing quietly, Bucky rolled his eyes, uttering a, "Fine, _jerk_ ," under his breath - Steve always chuckled at that - as he reached down to the side of the couch with both hands and retrieved a rather sizeable, poorly-wrapped present. Very poorly wrapped. What could he say? Steve was the one who had a way with his hands. Buck didn't quite have the patience for fine-tuning.  
Steve's aquamarine eyes bulged at the sight of the present. "Damn, Buck, what did you get me? A ladder?"  
Bucky set it down on the floor between them, conscious of not bruising Steve's legs with the weight, and smirked. "You'll have to open it and see, won't you?"

Eyeing the brunet warily, Steve had then set about peeling away the wrapping paper with slender, practised fingers, sitting further forward on the couch. Bucky absently shifted the blanket covering their laps so that it remained firmly upon Steve's lap as he bent forwards. It took a few minutes, Steve taking his time with revealing the gift, but when the wooden frame of an easel was laid bare before them, the blond stopped dead. A further few minutes consisting of Steve's stunned silence and Bucky's smirking passed before it was eventually broken.

"Bucky," Steve breathed, a hand caressing one of the wooden legs, "you... you honestly shouldn't have. This is too much. How much did this-"  
"Uh-uh, no point in asking, man, I'm not going to tell you," he cut in, "and it doesn't matter, anyways. You've been wanting one for years. Now you've got something sturdy to do your paintings on. Oh," he broke off to reach down the side of the couch once more before handing another smaller, more misshapen present to Steve, "and with."

Tearing into the gift, Steve exposed a set of brushes and paints. The brushes had evidently been used a great many times, the once varnished wood now worn and cracking from constant use and the bristles of the brush jutting out at ridiculous angles, but Steve looked as though Bucky had just given him the Noble Peace Prize.

A sincere look in his eyes as he ceased running his fingers along the length of the objects, Steve looked up at his best friend and smiled, "Thank you, Buck. It means a lot."  
"Don't mention it. You deserve it," he responded, allowing the guy a further few minutes to allow his gift to sink in before he gently pushed the blond's shoulder. "Stop gushing. It's your turn."   
"Oh, yeah," Steve said, flustering with his hands a little as he pulled out a roughly A4 sized, neatly-wrapped present from beneath one of the couch cushions. Bucky noticed it was wrapped in newspaper and also that a great many of the articles that caught his eye were war related. He sighed inwardly, knowing Steve had likely poured over the newspaper half a dozen times, ingesting everything he possibly could about America and it's situation in the grand scheme of the war. Steve probably noticed the way  Buck paused as he wrung his hands together and shifted anxious, adding, "And sorry about the paper."  
"Hey, don't worry about it. Besides, everyone's gotta make do," James said hurriedly, shooting the guy a quick smile of reassurance. Bucky understood the man's obsession with the war and wanting to help. In fact, he probably understood more than anyone. For all the years that Bucky had had the greatest pleasure in knowing Steve, the guy had always been the one to throw himself into a fight to protect the underdog, to stand up for what he believed was right. He had fought his entire life; fought to survive every time his body let him down, fought to endure after he lost both of his parents, fought for others when they lacked the energy to fight for themselves. He was a survivor, pure and simple. And Bucky would forever love him for it.

Pushing past the make-shift wrapping paper, James began to open the gift that Steve had painstakingly put together. He did it as carefully as his hands possibly could despite his building anticipation and excitement; one year when they were kids, Steve had intricately made him a toy plane out of pieces of card and other odds and ends and Bucky had torn into it so quickly he'd inadvertently ripped one of the wings clean off, spending the rest of Christmas and the New Year apologising as much as he possibly could to a nonplussed Steve. The guy put so much effort, so much _love_ into his gifts ... they deserved much more respect. _He_ deserved much more respect.

As the paper fell away, Bucky found his jaw dropping open as, gradually, he began to see segments of a painting. But not just a simple portrait or landscape - things were never simple with Steve - but a painting of them both at Coney Island that summer. The painting was of a photograph that Bucky had paid for them both to have as a keepsake of a fantastic day, a photograph that Buck believed he'd lost after he'd spent forever flustering after Steve when the guy had stumbled off the Cyclone and promptly vomited everywhere. Bucky's arm was around Steve's bony shoulders and the blond was resting his head against his side. Their smiles were almost as bright as the sun that had been bearing down on them that day.

He'd almost forgotten about it. What took Bucky so greatly by surprise was the detail, the crisp lines, the realism; _Steve would have had to have recreated this purely from memory... It's incredible_.

Sensing his unspoken question, Steve said, "I'd looked at that photo enough times to know it by heart. Thought I'd try my best to recreate it."

When Bucky eventually looked away from the painting, Steve was blushing. The wonderful thing about Steve's blushing bouts were that he tended to blush everywhere. Literally _everywhere_. His entire face would grow beet-red, the colour crawling down his neck and arms till it covered his body completely.

"Steve," Buck began eventually, "this is beautiful." His eyes fell to the painting once more, fingers tracing some of the raised edges left from gentle brush strokes. He could scarcely voice his amazement and gratitude for such a gift.   
Steve took his lack of outward enthusiasm to be a bad sign. "I... I know it's not exactly the same as an easel- I mean, it's a bit of a shallow gift, isn't it. Maybe we're getting too old for handmade gifts. I-I can buy you something else or-" Steve was cut off by the sudden feeling of lips pressing against his cheek, halting his apologies and intensifying his full-body blushing to a point where he wondered if he were about to combust.   
Bucky's breath ghosted across Steve's rosy-red cheek and neck, provoking a shudder he fought to suppress lest James' think the worst. He looked at his friend, a little startled, and was met with a lopsided, and maybe even vaguely sad, smile. "It's perfect, Stevie," Bucky uttered, "thank you."  
Steve looked at Bucky long and hard and found his own lips forming a smile. "Glad you like it," he answered, voice steady. They both knew what the other was thinking and James almost seemed to nod his head at a silent request before he turned back to his present; they wouldn't mention this to anyone nor would it be spoken about again between them. It would be one of those things they would think about and smile about, look at each other and blush about, but that was all. And Bucky was fine with that.


End file.
